


Little Cuts

by nepetrel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nepetrel/pseuds/nepetrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another year, another crisis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Cuts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abluestocking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abluestocking/gifts).



The Mandrake opened its wrinkled, toothless mouth in a scream Pomona couldn't hear a moment before she began hacking at its head.

The area right below the leafy head was tough, more like gristly cartilage than the bony skull it resembled, but it was also the best place to cut to get the most out of both leaf and root. Luckily, once the knife went in the resemblance to a small human largely faded; the root tended to flake in large, bark-like shavings wherever it was sliced. But it was still hard work, requiring considerable physical strength and dexterity.

Usually Pomona liked this part the best. She'd gone into Herbology because she loved working with her hands, digging deep into the soil and handling a knife where a cutting curse would make leaves shrivel and die before their time. But at this particular moment it was merely tedious and painstaking work. Pomona could hardly keep her mind wandering from the reason these Mandrakes were needed now, and how horribly lucky they'd been that they'd had them on hand at all. She didn't teach Mandrakes every year as they were hard to come by and often dangerous, and if she'd decided to put it off until next year again…

Pomona forced herself to focus on the ritual of cutting, separating the quickly-drying head and arms of the root with quick, see-sawing chops before slicing the torso into four long rectangles. She added the leaves to a growing pile and bottled the roots, then reached for the next pot. Brisk, efficient, mechanical. Pomona was used to falling into the rhythm of it and clearing her mind, but at the moment there was too much room in her head to think, and too many distressing things to think about.

She attempted to absorb herself in the task nonetheless, and must have succeeded at least in part, as she didn't know anyone was behind her until she felt a hand on her shoulder, squeezing for a moment before letting go. Still, she knew without bothering to look that it was Minerva. She finished her current Mandrake, slicing through the neck right below the slack, open mouth, and then turned, tugging her earmuffs down with the hand not holding the knife. "Minnie," she chided in the tone of voice she'd first perfected as a Prefect over fifty years ago, "you should know better than to sneak up on a witch holding a knife."

Minerva pulled her own earmuffs off with both hands and tucked them into a pocket of her robes. "I hardly think you would gut me, Pomona," she responded. "If you had any inclination to do so, it would have happened already."

Suddenly Pomona felt too sick of all that had happened to continue their usual teasing. "Perish the thought," she sighed instead, laying the knife on her workbench and pressed her hand to her forehead.

Minerva, understanding as always, said nothing. Instead she took Pomona's other hand and laced their fingers together. Pomona could hardly feel the pressure through her thick gloves, but she appreciated the gesture. "It's silly of me to feel like this when the children are about to wake up," Pomona said into the silence. "Mr. Finch-Fletchley will be thrilled to be given a pass on his exams." He was a sweet boy, and worked just as hard as any other student in her House, but he'd had a hard enough time sitting still for the written his first year.

"I can't imagine Miss Granger will feel the same way," Minerva said. "Most likely that's what will upset her the most about this whole ordeal."

"Yes. She's a brave girl." Pomona rubbed at her face. "And Mr. Creevey?"

"It's too soon to tell. I only had him in my House for a handful of months before this all began." Minerva's near-smile slipped to pinched worry. "I suppose I'll find out when I tell him."

Pomona thought of that boy, frozen with his Muggle camera still raised to his eye, lying squinting in a hospital bed for months, and of Justin, whose perpetual open-mouthed shock only served to remind Pomona that he had seen his fate coming and hadn't even had time to run. "It seems like the school is becoming more dangerous with every year that goes by," she said, and saw something flicker behind Minerva's eyes. She wondered if her friend was thinking of the Beater who fouled her in her last term at Hogwarts, leaving her with ribs that had to be pieced back together over the course of weeks and a concussion that made ever getting back on a broom a risky proposition. Or maybe that poor girl Myrtle, who had died—been murdered—three years before Minerva entered the school and who had somehow been forgotten far too quickly after. Pomona had been a second year then, but somehow the threats felt more immediate when directed at her students than it ever had when she had been a scared child herself.

Whatever she was thinking, Minerva chose instead to say, "the school is becoming more like the world outside. We must do a better job of protecting our students from it, at the same time that we prepare them for it."

The set of her mouth was determined. Pomona knew that look, had known it since she was a sixth year and had run into a first year in the kitchens by chance. Minerva, wild-haired and knobby-kneed, had been practicing her matchstick to needle Transfiguration for so long that she'd missed dinner entirely. "I want to know it all," she'd said, serious and a little haughty even at eleven years old. She'd meant it, and Pomona had spent the rest of that year and the next dropping off extra helpings of dinner to a little girl who didn't know when to quit, and years after that being updated on Minerva's exemplary standing by post. The Hat may have dithered between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor for her, but Minerva knew conviction like a Hufflepuff. She would do whatever was possible to keep the students safe as long as they were hers.

Pomona reached up with the hand that wasn't clasped around Minerva's to grasp at her shoulder. Minerva stooped obligingly and their lips met in a familiar embrace, comfortable and passionate all at once. Minerva's tongue stroked over hers, perpetually fast on the draw, and Pomona's eyes slid shut. For the first time all day, she felt at peace.

Eventually they parted by slow, languorous inches. Pomona smiled at Minerva, her gratitude shining through her eyes, and Minerva smiled back. Then Minerva took her earmuffs from her side pocket. "I assume you won't be offended if I use my own knife," she said briskly, turning her wand into one with a single rap of the wood against Pomona's workbench.

"You don't have to," Pomona protested. Minerva shook her head.

"It will go by faster with a friend," she said.

Pomona couldn't contest that, so she took a seat beside Minerva. She waited until they both had fastened their earmuffs firmly, then reached into the next full pot and unearthed another Mandrake. They lapsed into an easy silence, pressed close enough together to feel each other's weight and warmth through their robes, and worked until the break of day.


End file.
